The no-holds-barred tale of a Chicago-based thirty-something living the so-called dream

I’d like to apologize in advance, but some people just need a harsh dose of reality…or a swift kick straight in the mangina. One such person is my former roommate and one of my closest friends who decided to pour our friendship down the drain like the bottle of gin he probably shouldn’t have consumed before scoring his second DUI. But really, there’s no hard feelings between the two of us, can’t you tell?

But really…where do I even begin? Perhaps at the beginning of our soon-to-be-trainwrecked friendship.

When I first moved to Lincoln back in June 2011, I was absolutely terrified to say the least. Not knowing a single person – no friends, no relatives, nobody at all – it was probably one of the biggest leaps of faithlessness I’ve ever made in my life. Stranded in the Midwest with no friends and not even knowing where the gay bar(s) were – if any at all.

Perhaps you’re wondering, “What did you do?” “How did you meet anyone?” “How did you become the Regina George of the Mean Girls or the Teresa Giudice of the Real Housewives of Lancaster County?” Simple. This bitch got on Grindr and networked his ass off (much like he did in Chicago).

I wasted no time making friends with the first non-shirtless guy around my age who had something other than a bathroom mirror selfie for a default pic. Rescuing me from an exciting evening of Netflix, sweatpants, and antisocial drinking, I was informed to be at a certain corner (typical) at a certain time. I would be meeting up with my new soon-to-be-made friend and his friends who would become my new friends.

Sure enough, a few of these friends and I had already talked on Grindr (welcome to the life of a gay stuck in a big small town) and struck up conversation quickly in person. Step one to assimilating into the role of Regina George: Complete.

The first scandal (and whackjob personality trait) would soon ensue. At the end of the night, after trying to subtly get me to go home with him (or more appropriately go home with me…since at 26 he was still living with his parents) since his relationship with his boyfriend (that he still to this day has an unhealthy Lifetime-movie-worthy psycho-stalker obsession with) was on the rocks. Sorry, but I’m not about to play the role of Little Suzy Homewrecker.

Over the course of the next few months, we ended up becoming best friends and bonding over breaking up with our other halves (yes, I’d wasted no time getting into a relationship in Lincoln) and he practically moved in with me every weekend. We were inseparable, so it only seemed natural that at the end of my lease we should get a two-bedroom together downtown so he could move out of his parents’ house…and hopefully grow the balls to finally come out to them. But alas, the second half of this still has yet to happen.

Don’t get me wrong, in the time before – and after – we became roommates, we had a lot of great times together. From Halloween costumes as baseball players on Team Tug-n-Chug, to Easter brunch from McDonald’s, to trips to Chicago and Kansas City together, we never ceased to have a good time. Until a few weeks before I moved to Chicago.

We’d had several small falling-outs starting about six months after we’d moved in together. Having lived not with my parents since I was 18, I naturally had everything for an apartment. He owned his bedroom stuff, a Keurig (that his mother bought him), and an electric wine bottle opener (because heaven forbid you physically exert yourself using a butterfly opener or a wine key). This was perhaps the root of the issue. When you live in someone else’s home surrounded by their stuff, I guess you begin to feel like you’re in a hotel.

Newsflash: I am not your mother. I’m not going to clean up after you. Especially in the morning after you’ve gone all Adolf Hitler on a pizza and burnt it to a crisp (again) since you decided to pass out drunk and let it roast at 400 for six hours until I wake up to the smell of smoke.

Please take note and don’t be surprised when I get home from a weekend trip to Denver and am annoyed that you didn’t wait for me to decorate the apartment (where you aren’t even on the lease because you didn’t know if you’d be able to afford half of a $520/month rent bill each month since you’re used to living at home for free) for Christmas after I’d explicitly asked you to wait. Please also don’t be surprised when I get even more annoyed/pissed off after learning through your drunken bragging to our friends about pulling a fast one on me with the lie that your mother “insisting on buying you a tree and decorations while we were out shopping” when you actually got it from home. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but new Christmas trees don’t come in boxes from the 1980’s. I’m not dumb. I saw it in the basement. My family used to have almost the same tree growing up.

SIDE NOTE: I’m not sure at what point you should cut your children off since I don’t have any, but at some point you probably should. The fact that your parents mail you a $50 gift card to Starbucks because they’ll “miss seeing you this weekend for lunch” is ridiculous and does not deserve a $50 gift card. I’m not jealous. I’m simply disgusted at how you use your parents like a roll of toilet paper. I also think it’s funny that you refuse to come out to them because you’re “afraid they’ll cut me off” – guess what…you’re almost 28. Stop living a lie. You need to be cut off anyway. Grow up.

Since I’m not an immature twat about to ruin the holidays over a stupid Christmas tree (that all of my friends and coworkers agreed looked like it was about ten degrees away from being a hot mess) that I wouldn’t have to take town, the holidays went on without a hitch. The day the tree came down, my living room furniture found itself rearranged to the way that made logical sense from a design standpoint (since that’s part of what I get paid to do in the first place). Cue the bitching…again. There’s no making this kid happy.

So life naturally went on, and my roommate eventually stopped bitching about where the sofa was (that really wasn’t his style anyway since he preferred more puffy, plush leather styles compared to clean, modern lines), after hearing nearly everyone who was over compliment on how nice it was and how much nicer it was without the furniture pushed against the walls like it’d been during the holidays.

Fast forward to a few weeks before I move to Chicago. Here I am, casually sleeping with a mutual friend of ours who tells me they’d hung out and discussed me (always the hot topic of conversation). In this conversation, my friend who was already on the way out in my mind pretty much sealed his own fate. When asked if he’d be putting any effort into keeping in touch with me and working on patching up our already-on-the-rocks friendship, he had said “Eh, it’s whatever. I don’t really care.”

So naturally, I stop caring at this point too. I move away, we text occasionally, it is what it is.

Oh but wait, just like an infomercial at 3am, there’s more!

I went back to throw a surprise birthday party for Not-so-Carrie two months after I’d moved away. Of course he’d made the guest list because I figured it would be even more awkward to not invite him since he fell inside our circle of friends.

Rolling into town a few hours before the party, I stopped by our old apartment to pick up a car-load of things that were still stashed in our garage (that I’d let him use, in addition to having the bigger bedroom with two closets – without charging anything extra for either – the whole time we lived together without ever getting a “thank you”), I’m met by the question “Can you take the rest of this stuff to Goodwill while you’re here? I haven’t had a chance.” Umm…really?

Seeing as I was only going to be in town for less than 48 hours and you’d volunteered six months before to run the boxes over to Goodwill in your Jeep, yes…I would most certainly mind taking them over in my Hyundai Elantra that was already packed full. Get real.

I also ran inside to grab something else I’d left behind and was met by a modern black leather sofa nearly identical to mine, metal and glass furniture, and modern art all over the walls. Funny, because your style is apparently anything other than this. But still…tastes change. I accept that. Just don’t complain that you don’t like any of my things because they’re “not my style” then go buy nearly the same thing.

Putting all of this aside though, I casually asked if he’d be coming that evening to the surprise party since he hadn’t even RSVP’d as a maybe on Facebook. “Oh…I don’t know what’s going on tonight. I haven’t decided,” he replied. Okay. I’ll take that as a “Sorry, but I won’t be there.”

Sure enough. He was MIA. No call, no text, total no show.

Until we ran into him later at the bar and were completely ignored. One bar later, however, we ran into him again.

Informed by one of our friends later that evening, the next line essentially ended his friendship with 90% of our circle of friends. When asked by our other friend (who also hadn’t been able to make it to the party, but only because he’d had to work) if he’d gone to it, he responded “No, and I don’t care. She (being the Goddess of the Gays whose birthday the party was thrown in honor of) can die in a ditch for all I care.”

Ouch. That’s a little harsh.

Needless to say, the following morning a text was sent to him by yours truly ending our friendship. I don’t have room for negative people like him in my life who choose to live a lie – not only to his/her family about their sexual orientation for fear of being financially cut off at age 27, but also to their friends who he/she doesn’t hesitate to talk shit on behind their backs.

No one deserves to go through life thinking they are friends with someone who says their mutual friend can “die in a ditch.” Life is short, and life is precious. Drunken words are sober thoughts. Ain’t nobody got time for people like that. Especially me.

In the end, I truly hope he has an amazing life. Perhaps he’ll decide to come out to his family someday and stop being such a miserable person. Perhaps he’ll find love and not just another 18-year-old Grindr hookup. He’s a great guy and was a great friend…he just needs to stop being such a psychopathic sociopath.

The modern misadventures of a twentysomething transplant from Nebraska, trying to navigate Chicago. Many gays love meddling with my life, for better and for worse. Fortunately, I'm a less horse-faced version of Carrie Bradshaw, that, unfortunately, never gets any action.